


I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

by Lilith (Citrine)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And a couple of quotes from Monty Python, Dark John, Dark Sherlock, Het Dubious Consent, M/M, Murder/serial killers, Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:44:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citrine/pseuds/Lilith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Freak!” I spit the word out even though I know that it’s a mistake to taunt him. </p><p>“That’s the last time you’ll ever call me that,” Sherlock Holmes says calmly, too calmly. He’s like ice, with his emotions all frozen over.</p><p>High functioning sociopath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I scared myself writing this one! Murderous Sherlock and dark John told from their victim's pov.

“Freak!” I spit the word out even though I know that it’s a mistake to taunt him.

“That’s the last time you’ll ever call me that,” Sherlock Holmes says calmly, too calmly. He’s like ice, with his emotions all frozen over.

High functioning sociopath.

He told us himself that he’d been diagnosed for Christ’s sake! Why didn’t anyone but me ever stop to think what that actually meant? Lestrade wouldn’t bloody well listen, perhaps I wouldn’t be in this mess if he had. I brace myself and pull hard on the restraints around my wrists. Pain shoots up my arms into my aching shoulders, but the ropes that hold me to the chair won’t give.

Sherlock knows that I don’t have a hope in hell of breaking free. That’s why he watches so impassively, with just a trace of a smile playing around his lips.

I slump back on the chair, beaten, but not defeated. There are fluorescent lights on the ceiling, desks, filing cabinets, obviously an office with photographs of somebody’s pretty Asian children blu-tacked to the wall. 

“Where the hell are we?” Okay, so it’s a clichéd question, but I need to know. To get my bearings and work out how far I am from help, from a major road, a twenty-four hour supermarket or even a good old fashioned telephone box. If I can just get loose, kick him in the balls and make a run for it.

“It’s a surprise, I’ll tell you later.”

No surprise there then, I knew that the son-of-a-bitch wouldn’t tell me, just as I know that I can’t get out of this and that these ropes aren’t going to break. The image still mocks me; him doubling over in pain, me racing down the concrete stairs and later the  screech of police sirens. Lestrade telling me that he’s sorry, that I was right all along and that Sherlock Holmes belongs in Broadmoor

It isn’t going to happen.

Keep him talking then. He likes the sound of his own voice and if I can keep him rattling on about how brilliant he is until daylight, until someone comes into work, then maybe, just maybe, I’ve got a chance.

“Tell me now,” I say. “I don’t like surprises.”

“I do.”

Oh, sweet fuck, there’s a knife in his hand. An old thing by the look of it, like something off Antiques Roadshow, with a serrated edge and an ivory handle. It touches my neck and I want to scream.

“I bet that you didn’t expect this when you got out of Anderson’s bed this morning.”

Sherlock’s right, but I won’t admit it. I didn’t expect the blade to be warm, but he’s been turning it over and over in his hands. I didn’t expect to die today. _Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition._ I’m getting hysterical and I take a deep breath to stop myself hyperventilating.

He’s breathing is a bit heavier too, getting off on it just like I always said that he did. The knife moves across my throat, a millimetre above the skin. Sherlock’s hand is very steady, but his breath catches in his throat. It’s not me. It’s death that’s turning him on.

 _You fancy him._ That accusation has been thrown at me more than once when I’ve been too strident in my opinions, when I’ve said too loudly and too often that Sherlock Holmes is not to be trusted.  You fancy him. He’s not interested and hell hath no fury etc etc. The bloody idiots!  There was always something about him that repelled me, some hint of the madman under the polished veneer.

Well, the cracks are showing now all right. I look up into those black eyes and wish that I hadn’t because I’m the prey caught in the predator’s fixed stare.   I have to try to talk to him, to negotiate, but the words won’t come.

The knife slashes across my shoulder and I scream.

It isn’t a deep cut. It isn’t a killing cut. He’s playing with me.

Blood runs down the front of my grey blouse. I bite back a whimper. My nerves are in shreds, but I can’t just give up.  “I’m a police officer. We always protect our own. If you kill me they’ll come after you and you’ll spend the rest of your life in the loony bin.”

“And if I don’t kill you, Sally, will you promise to never ever to tell anyone what happened here tonight? Will you swear on your mother’s grave, on your father’s life, and what will that promise be worth if I’m stupid enough to release you?”

“You need help, Sherlock. If you let me go and if you agree to see a psychiatrist then I won’t mention this to anyone. It’ll be our secret.” 

We both know that I’m lying.

The knife shimmers silver as it slices down. I cry out, flinching away and he flips the blade up at the last possible second.

“Bastard,” I snarl at him.

Sherlock laughs.

There are footsteps in the corridor. I open my mouth to call out for help and the knife is there, pressed down on my tongue. Jesus, he’s quick! He shakes his head and puts his finger to his lips. Then he laughs again. “Go on scream, there’s no one to hear you. No one who gives a damn if you live or die.”

John Watson.

He stands in the doorway taking in the scene before him and then he closes the door quietly.

“Are you okay?”

John’s talking to Sherlock, not to me, and he’s not the least bit shocked. He’s not even surprised. Oh, god, how much worse can this get?  Panic overtakes me and I struggle frantically, but the ropes only cut deeper into my bruised wrists.

“I’m fine,” says Sherlock, “but Sally’s getting a little bit upset.”

“Sod Sally.” 

John seizes the back of Sherlock’s neck and the next second they’re kissing like something out of a porno movie.

It’s all true then, all the jokes, all the innuendos that we snigger over in the pub opposite Scotland Yard.  So much for John’s ‘I’m not gay’ routine and his string of girlfriends. They got off light, if they did but know it. I don’t think that I’m going to be as lucky. John’s not Sherlock though, he’s not a nut job, even if he’s acting like one right now.

Perhaps I can get through to him, but John knows that Sherlock’s a killer and he still fancies him. What the hell does that say about nice guy John?  That he’s screwed up, big time? That Sherlock’s been messing with his head? God knows he’s a manipulative git and clever. I mustn’t forget clever.

They slam into the desk with their mouths still locked together and I start to wonder how far this is going to go. Sociopaths have no boundaries.  If Sherlock wants to fuck John on the desk he’ll do it whether I’m watching or not. I got laid on a desk once, at the Christmas party down at Kensal Green nick, but I didn’t have a captive audience.

I begin to laugh and once I start I can’t control the hysteria.

They turn in perfect accord and look at me. I’m a bug under a microscope and that’s funny too. I could die laughing.

John makes eye contact with Sherlock who gives a slight nod. Then John crosses the room and stands over me.

“Shut up, bitch.”

The unexpected slap is hard enough to make my head ring. There’s blood in my mouth and I feel it dribble down my chin as I stare at John, shocked by his violence. I had expected it from Sherlock, but not from him. It’s hopeless. I know that it’s hopeless, but I have to try.

“What the hell has he done to you, John? The man I met that night in Brixton would never have hit a woman, much less contemplated cold blooded murder.”  I’m pleading with him now, begging for my life. “Sherlock’s screwed you over in every sense. He’s manipulating you, using you to do all his dirty work for him.  If he’s told you that he loves you then that’s just a load of crap. Sherlock Holmes isn’t capable of loving anyone, ever.”

“He isn’t. I’m not. And yet it works for us, this not-loving relationship that we have. These dark nights of blood.”  John smiles, but his eyes are an empty void. He’s a man without a soul. A man without a conscience.

I’m going to die.

In a few minutes I – Sally Donovan – will cease to exist.

That thought terrifies me.

I struggle frantically against ropes that will not break. “Please, please, don’t kill me. Please, god, please don’t!” I’m babbling, begging like every stupid victim I’ve ever despised. The fear twists in my guts and the gorge rises in my throat. “Please, let me go.”

“Why ever would we want to do that?” Sherlock’s trying for icy nonchalance, but this is getting to him.  

The more I struggle and beg the more he likes it. John moves to stand beside him. Sherlock takes John’s hand and presses it against his groin. He gasps and his dark head tips back, eyes half-closing, but he’s still watching me.

Am I that desperate? Yes, I am. Somewhere at the back of my mind an idea flickers and wilts under the weight of the terror that’s consuming me. I lean forward and spread my legs as widely as I can with the ropes cutting into my ankles.

“I’ll do anything,” I say. “Anything you want.” As if they couldn’t just take what I’m offering.

Sherlock’s lip curls in a disdainful sneer. “Once a whore, always a whore.” He turns to John. “Do you want her? You like cunts.”

John takes the knife from Sherlock. “I’ll have to cut the ropes around her ankles.”

“Untie her completely if you want to, she isn’t going anywhere.”

I choke back a scream.  It’s true. I’m not going anywhere, not ever again. I’ll never get past both of them. This is only delaying the inevitable. Yet when John slices the ropes away it gives me one last cruel illusion of freedom. He winds my hair around his hand and the savage pull on my scalp brings fresh tears to my eyes. My knees impact on the polished floor. John rolls me over onto my back. The knife’s at my throat. Will he kill me while he’s screwing me or will Sherlock do it afterwards?

John pins my arms to the floor with one hand clenched around my wrists. I never thought that he was this strong or that he was a raving psycho. Panic blinds me and I try uselessly to scrabble away. I hear myself crying and begging and all to no avail. The blade draws blood and I freeze.

John grins and reaches for the fastenings on his jeans with his free hand.

There’s a shadow between me and the light.

Sherlock crouches next to John. There’s a little plastic packet in his hand. “Use this,” he says to John. “She sleeps around.”

He makes it sound like the worse crime in the world.

_Always look on the bright side of life._

Even with the condom, there’ll still be enough evidence, enough DNA, on my body for forensics to get a match. John’s fingers digging into my hips. Sherlock’s hand around my throat. My corpse will convict them both.

Sherlock’s still kneeling beside me. John’s perched on the edge of the desk getting his breath back.  He coughs and I hope that the bastard chokes. I wish that we still had the death penalty.  I wish that I had time to say good-bye to my Dad.

They’re not going to get away with it. I try to hold onto that thought. “I’m a good copper,” I tell Sherlock.

“Not nearly good enough.”  He lifts a strand of sweat-soaked hair off my forehead with the blade of the knife. “Now for the surprise, Sally. These are the offices of the Honor Oak Crematorium. There’s a furnace downstairs, one that’s especially designed to incinerate human remains. No forensics. No DNA. Nothing but ash.” Sherlock kisses my temple. “We’ll scatter you on the rose garden before we leave.”

 


End file.
